She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He has no imagination, no real generosity. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you.
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